I was on the highway that takes me home. She has four lanes and she’s named after an ocean. A helmeted lady on the back of a Harley Davidson was in front. She was in leather pants, a leather Harley Davidson jacket and had a long blonde ponytail that slithered from under the helmet snaking the air in a tantric dance. Those embroided orange eagle wings on her jacket had me spellbound. I was spellbound between the slaps of her bleached blonde as I kept at 110 behind her. My windows were down and the air coming in was like a fan blowing over an Indonesian roadside goat sate stand, it took every bit of ash as I drew on a cigarette and sent it somewhere into the back of my car. I found myself wondering about being a bikie wife. I found myself wondering what kind of wife she was because she was masculine enough to hop on that bike but feminine enough to clutch the waist of the man driving it. In order to determine what kind of wife she was I thought, you’d have to determine what sense of masculinity those hands on his waist filled him with. Because everything to do with a man is given away by the kind of ego he’s got, and everything to do with the way a woman behaves as a wife is given away by the kind of man she has.
There is seldom a more terrifying moment than that which you are completely honest with yourself. When your knees buckle and you fall and crumble, when you dirty your knees and scuff up your toes, stumble to raise your hands in the air, your face white and your eyes wild for the high beams that are blare upon you. The moment of surrender.
The world feels very strange in that moment, so grotesque, unkind, unfamiliar, it’s like you don’t even feel a part of it, like you have stepped outside of it. It’s like you’ve thrown yourself from the moon or something, into the great abyss, into the infinite. Well I reckon it feels brash and stingy and like you are that single dead tree with the pointy spindly branches that scratch the air, that single landmark in a sea of nothing at the highest point when the lightning comes.
Solemn sunset take me down.
The orange splinters
are hijacking the clouds.
And God’s toenail
is high up in the blue,
clipped from his big Zeus-sandled foot
and sticky-taped on the dusk.
The biggest glories and greatest horrors. Funny how each of them can feel unmistakably real in the moments they land upon your mind and ooze out through it all oily and tar-like, detonating everything in their path like a tsunami on the developing world.
Our moods and emotions never stick, I’ve come to notice they marble. The good, the bad, the enjoyable, the horrible all take turns at being the prominent colour within us, and when they are they hold complete control. They can be invigorating, paralyzing. As sure as night comes after day though they will always soon move, they will eventually collide with something else, something else that is stronger in that moment. These things in our mind they ooze out, swirl into each other, they bleed spectacularly.
There is a realisation that comes with solitude. When the nights on your own come thick one after one another as naturally as the days of the week flow into each other and they are heavy enough for you to start feeling them and not being able to not notice them, well novelty has completed its full metamorphosis into reality. It is here you find what it truly means to be floating.
Cos when that’s all you got,
when that’s all you’re getting,
that is all you are worth.